A Slight Delay

One of the best things about Saturday afternoons* for a couple of blissful years in the early ’80s was the PBS series Matinee at the Bijou, which in my neck of the woods aired on NJN. A cartoon or two, a serial, a newsreel, a short subject, and a movie… I was glued to the set, and the cheesier the film, the better. For the life of me, I can’t remember a single plot of a single one of the films, but at the time, I caught Matinee every chance I got.

And then, as abruptly as I came across it, it stopped. This tends to happen when I like something on television; I get into something and it promptly gets taken off the air. I eventually developed a complex of sorts, thinking that I was somehow cursed. Maybe I was putting a hex on all these shows? You can imagine my relief when I checked out the Wikipedia entry on the show yesterday, and found out it wasn’t my fault. (more…)

If you’re reading this, you may not be an American. If you’re an Obama supporter, you most certainly–at least by some people’s reckoning–are not. And the top man on the Democratic presidential ticket? Nope, not an American either.

Ignoring the television (and with it, the noise coming from both campaigns at the moment), I’m still hearing plenty of the aforementioned crap. I’ve been informed by someone, in all earnestness and without a trace of irony, that Barack Obama is a Muslim, not a Christian; that he’s a Socialist; and that he’s a very, very dangerous individual who will set the United States down a sure road to ruin. Another friend sends an email that calls Obama “the enemy from within,” and asserts that Obama’s record-breaking election fundraising is coming not from American citizens, but from the Middle East (and no, they don’t mean Ohio).

The commentariat hasn’t helped matters any, asserting repeatedly that Obama is not an American citizen, having been born on foreign soil; he wasn’t, and besides, by that logic, John McCain would not be either. Rush Limbaugh went so far as to suggest that Obama’s visit last week to his grandmother was part of a larger conspiracy to cover up the facts surrounding his birth, and hinted darkly that Obama would silence her, or have her silenced. The bullshit, needless to say, doesn’t stop there. (more…)

At what point does politics become pathology?

Maybe it happens when your surrogates have so thoroughly demonized and vilified your opponent that your supporters are calling for his assassination. Perhaps it’s when you’ve convinced those same supporters that he is neither an American citizen, nor a Christian, but instead something irredemably foreign, and completely “other.” Or is it when your supporters start resorting to self-mutilation and libel, and your own campaign somehow thinks this is a helpful thing?

This was the case late last week for McCain supporter Ashley Todd, a 20-year-old campaign volunteer. The story went that she’d been accosted by a rather large black male at an ATM, who beat her, sexually assaulted her, and–noticing the McCain sticker on her car–carved a “B” into her face to teach her a lesson.

Most of us, hearing someone’s been attacked, have an instinctive sense of sympathy for that person. I certainly did. But then I took another look at the picture. The backward “B” (who the fuck was her attacker? Buckwheat? Alfalfa?); the suspiciously shallow cut, as though her attacker was being extra careful; what looked like a hesitation cut on the other cheek; even a black eye that looked a bit too… meticulous? Then sympathy turns into doubt, and then into disgust. The only thing sicker than someone who’d do something like that is someone who’d do it to themselves. (more…)

The New York Daily News and the office of Mayor Michael Bloomberg are calling it a “victory for democracy;” this past Thursday (not for nothing are we called A Slight Delay), the New York City Council narrowly passed (29-22) a measure that overrode term limits in Gotham. It’s worth noting that this was not a deeply unpopular measure foisted on the city by politicians; term limits were first enacted by referendum by NYC voters in 1993, and reaffirmed in 1996. How, and since when, is circumventing the will of the people a victory for democracy?

Bloomberg’s argument is as simple as it is egotistical; according to the mayor, the present economic crisis is one that he alone is uniquely equipped to handle. Because of this, we’re told, the law should be no impediment to his ambitions. The problem is that his argument doesn’t hold water. (more…)

Sometimes it’s one of a seemingly endless procession of anonymous R&B singers who confuse sounding weepy with being soulful; sometimes it’s Justin Timberlake’s dry white whine; sometimes it’s hearing the likes of Rod Stewart, Michael McDonald, or Michael Bolton (cursed be thy name) butchering the classics; but I’m reminded more and more often that they just don’t make soul like they used to.

Now, I don’t expect music to remain stuck in some kind of timewarp. We don’t need to hear endless retreads of What’s Going On, Superfly, Black Moses, or Songs in the Key of Life. What makes any kind of music interesting, at least to my ears, is its ability to evolve, change, and respond to the times. For a generation reared on Maxwell, D’Angelo, and R. Kelly, it’s easy to write off a lot of soul–Motown or Stax, Detroit or Philadelphia or L.A.–as “oldies,” or some kind of nostalgia trip. It’s easy to forget that before N.W.A., before Bone Thugz, before bling, there were other ways to speak to “The Sound of Young America” and other ways of “keeping it real” than what passes for it now.

And it’s maybe too easy to forget the likes of Levi Stubbs. His was the voice of the Four Tops. Yes, I know, there were three others, but it’s Stubb’s voice that propelled “Bernadette,” “Standing in the Shadows of Love,” “Baby, I Need Your Loving,” and “I Can’t Help Myself” to the upper reaches of the charts. (more…)

McCain’s distortions and fabrications are numerous and well-documented; so well, in fact, that some of the truths he’s told have flown under the radar. Case in point: the McCain healthcare plan. McCain touted his plan during the debates (with 63 million people watching), and millions more have likely seen or read of that performance and plan in the days since.

What isn’t getting much of an airing is one of the intended consequences of McCain’s plan. Those of us who are receiving healthcare through our employers will now find our health insurance taxed as income. Yes, you read correctly; the man who promises to cut your taxes any time he’s within shouting distance of a microphone–the same man who tells you Barack Obama will raise your taxes–is, to borrow a turn of phrase from Sarah Palin, fixin’ to raise your taxes. Well, golly. And he’ll fine those who can’t afford the (on average) $12,000 tab to insure their families even after the $5,000 spoonful of sugar he promises taxpayers to offset the expense. A logical question to ask: who, exactly, benefits here?

A modest proposal to those of you reading this: Tom Brokaw asked during the debate,
“Is health care in America a privilege, a right or a responsibility?” It ought not to be considered a privelage, especially not when we have 47+ million who are, by any definition, “underprivelaged,” which is to say, uninsured. What might be the consequences of treating healthcare like a utility, back in the times when utilities were still regulated?

Think of all the things invented to save time. Instant coffee. Jiffy Pop. TV Dinners, and then TV Dinners weren’t fast enough and we invented the microwave oven. Trailers, so you could carry your home around like a turtle.

On top of that, it seems that everything keeps getting shorter. Read a review of a new disc or film, and you’ll be lucky if it’s even a paragraph. With stars at the top. I don’t want stars, I want content. I wanna know if it’s good, or if it sucks, and WHY it’s good or it sucks. Icons are used by people who can’t write, for people who either can’t read or can’t be bothered.

I mean, if you’re gonna have a ratings system with little icons, at least have them mean something. “Yeah, that new Pat Metheny got four and a half geese.” That’s some serious goosebumps. I’d shell out the 15.98 for that, no sweat. The new Kevin Costner got a pillow and four stopwatches? You’ll fall asleep 20 minutes in, and that’s 2 1/2 hours of your life you’re just never getting back. You didn’t want to take your girlfriend or wife to see that new chick flick, but you noticed it got three bottles of champagne, a scented candle, and two cigarettes. Well, on second thought…

James, Hey Ma/Ben Folds, Way to Normal

Sometimes it seems like I go through dry spells with books and music, where there isn’t much out that’s new that seems interesting. The most recent stuff that’s grabbed me, actually, has tended to be new material by artists whose music I’ve been listening to for years.

First up, surprisingly, is James. I say “surprisingly” for a few reasons, not least of which would be the fact that their last two studio albums (1999’s Millionaires and the 2001 release Pleased to Meet You) were never released in the States, and also because Booth left the band after its 2001 tour. Plans for the band to continue with another vocalist in Booth’s place never quite materialized, but in 2007 he returned to the fold, and the band hit the road again to a string of sold-out dates.

The album that’s resulted after a seven-year layoff is Hey Ma. The same lineup of the band that recorded the classic Seven returned to the studio, and if the result doesn’t quite reach the giddy heights of the band’s earlier material, it does get under your skin and stay there. The techno-informed, atmospheric vibe that characterized the band’s later work has largely been left out, leaving room for the kind of loose, spontaneous sound of their middle period. While there are a handful of missteps–Tim Booth’s vocal delivery in places sounds more like Morrisey than Booth–this is still an album that the band needn’t be ashamed of. It sounds like what it likely is: a band rediscovering the fun of playing together for the first time in a long time. (more…)

If I were one of those people paid to write breathless accolades for things, I’d probably call Luis Alfredo Garcia-Roza’s Blackout, the latest installment in the Inspector Espinosa series, a “taut psychological thriller.” But I’m not one of those people, so I’ll have to try to find a better way than that to describe the book, and to let you know that you should probably go and get yourself a copy.

A disclaimer, of sorts: I’m not a huge fan of mystery writing. It’s not that I don’t like the genre; I just think it’s capable of being much more than what it generally passes for these days. I know that Agatha Christie continues to sell in the thousands (besides apparently keeping PBS viewers glued to their sets), but I’ve always preferred the likes of Chandler, for instance, or people like Elmore Leonard. As I’d written elsewhere (reviewing Pursuit, Garcia-Roza’s last offering), a lot of current stuff in the genre “seems to consist of either A: Softcore porn and a handful of dead bodies, or B: recipies for baked goods, a cat, a few chaste kisses, and a handful of dead bodies–and yes, I’m aware that there are exceptions, but please, go to the Mystery section of your local bookstore and see if the selection doesn’t bear me out–this is a rare bird: creative, thoughtful, literary, and sometimes given to flights of fancy.” (more…)

One side effect of the portable MP3 player: I don’t spend nearly as much time as I used to watching television with the sound turned all the way down and the stereo on. It’s a shame, really, because you can end up with some really good, or at least pretty funny, accidental art that way, when what’s playing through the speakers accidentally syncs with what’s going on onscreen.

Case in point: I remember one night listening to Street Life, one of what seems like half a dozen Roxy Music best-ofs, while channel surfing. And it happened. Some channel was showing a speech by Louis Farrakhan, clearly getting himself into a lather over something, while Bryan Ferry and company were belting out “Do the Strand.” You can just imagine my joy when Farrakhan spake thus:

Do the strand love
When you feel love
It´s the new way
That´s why we say
Do the strand
Do it on the tables
Quaglino´s place or Mabel´s
Slow and gentle
Sentimental
All styles served here
Louis seize he prefer
Laissez-faire le strand

Maybe he was angry because he was “tired of the tango,” or “fed up with fandango.” We may never know. (more…)